


A Date at the Hospital

by MeltyRum



Category: AI: The Somnium Files (Video Game), Batman - All Media Types, Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You, Under Night In-Birth (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Kudos: 2
Collections: Boku no Hero Academia x Persona





	A Date at the Hospital

It was only the second day, approaching the first evening following their incident, but he was already well and sick of his bed. Fortunately, his injuries weren’t bad enough that he couldn’t move to and fro unassisted (even if his overall attitude of malaise and self-pity meant he preferred to keep to his bed, despite his hatred for it), but it would be another few days before the bandaging on his former eye would be removed for good, only to be replaced with a prosthetic or a patch—and Date had a feeling that neither of them were going to bring him complete satisfaction, even if he was still grateful to have _one_ eye left in its socket.

But days were very long when there was little to do but sleep. And the truth was that sleeping _was_ all that Date wanted to do: even though his only areas of concern were his left eye and his right arm, his entire body had spent the last day or two racked with a sort of exhaustion that he had hitherto never experienced. Speaking seemed to exhaust him to a frustrating degree, and he only barely tolerated listening to others do so. Moreover, the detective felt that he couldn’t keep his eye open for more than fifteen or so minutes, for whatever reason. At the same time, though, finally letting his eye rest and sinking into his bed (he’d had worse) rarely brought him any sort of meaningful rest or repose.

So his hospital stay so far had been spent caught between exhaustion and sleeplessness, waiting for the hours to pass and doing his best not to look to the clock. He considered asking a nurse to remove it, but worried that this might make time crawl even more slowly, somehow; at least this way he could keep exactly one eye on it.

When a “detective” had come to take their statements, Kaname had decided the wise thing would be to acquiesce and agree to the questioning, even if he knew his story wouldn’t at all be believed. It was likely that this detective had been assigned by the same superior Date had consulted regarding the truth of the Travers case, which meant that any testimony he provided would be discarded—or worse, dissected and discredited in any possible fashion. But it was the right thing to do, he knew: he would likely not have many opportunities to make sure the truth was recorded and dictated to paper for the sake of posterity—although the station might shred whatever he provided, so he would have to be careful to keep his own record.

But it was good to get his story straight at least once. He would probably have to move to the media at some point, and other people—heroes, mostly—knew the whole truth of the situation, or would soon. Naturally, Date made sure to request a separate room for when he underwent questioning and provided his statement. His brother’s memories had been compromised, after all, and Date still hadn’t decided whether that was for the best or not, which meant he preferred not to say his piece where Joshua might be listening.

It had been a difficult hospital stay, where his brother was concerned. The two of them had reliable heroic protection, were safe, and could speak with each other freely… but part of Kaname despised this. Sharing a room with Joshua put him on edge just as much as it comforted him, because, _yes_ , they _could_ speak, but what about? Should they even try? During the last meaningful conversation that they’d had, they had both assumed that neither of them would be alive today. The siblings had shared their goodbyes, in a sense, and expressed their brotherly love as they prepared for their mortal resolution.

Instead, they were still here. And it hurt. Relieving as it was, it hurt—not so much Date’s eye or his arm, which were managed quite keenly with medication and rest—but everything else. He didn’t know how to approach someone after a traumatic event like this—which was a bit ironic, considering it was a reasonably commonplace activity for a detective. Even thinking about discussing the night’s events with Joshua—or anyone else he knew—brought a lingering, irritating, frustrating, searing wave of pain to his eyes—not to his injury, but to his sinuses, which threatened to overflow with the grief which roiled and festered in the pit of his abdomen.

Right. He had spoken to the police easily enough, and might well do so with the media, but… with his brother? With friends? The confidence to undergo such a conversational ordeal did not now exist within him. Even if Joshua deserved to know the truth, the one-eyed detective was not confident he could provide it just yet. Would it be better for Yoshiya to never know? It would be easier, perhaps, to return to a normal life, blissfully ignorant of the manner in which he had been toyed with, drugged, abused, violated…

Date felt one of his fists clench. The grief picked up a hue of anger—an anger Date knew was pathetic and useless and ineffectual, but it was something that gave him an answer to his question all the same: No. It would _not_ be better for Yoshiya to never know, because this step was necessary in earning justice for his little brother.

Those _monsters_ had to pay, didn’t they? How could they have done something like that? All of it? What pieces inside them were missing, such that they felt they could enjoy taking part in such a heinous performance? And how could there have developed such a concentration of them in one organization—among the Russos? And perhaps worst of all, the city’s police force was sitting comfortably within the pockets of these sadists.

Date relaxed his jaw, realizing belatedly that he’d been grinding his teeth together.

He tried to relax, slowly opening his eye to make sure Joshua was still asleep; much like he didn’t want to become a sobbing wreck before any of his friends, he didn’t want his brother spying on him and following the thread of emotions he had been experiencing—something that Yoshiya was likely quite good at, which made the often-open curtains around their beds something of a curse as much a blessing. It was comforting that they could each keep an eye on each other (well, Joshua could use two eyes if he so pleased), but there were also moments where his brother was the last thing that Date wished to see.

It wouldn’t surprise him if Joshua felt the same way. But… maybe not. After all, Joshua probably didn’t remember much outside of waking up in pain in the back of a van, which very well might be for the best. Would _Date_ want to remember such a thing, if it happened to him? Would the resulting hollow confusion be more painful than the memories of whatever torture he had gone through? That was too hard to say. Date would have to live with all of the memories but none of the torture—not Joshua’s, anyway—and that’s how it always would be, while Joshua had the torture without the memories.

Would it really be any better for him to have both?

Date didn’t like to think about it. He mentally reprimanded himself for having let his thoughts drift this way once again.

But it was all he _could_ think about.

Because one day Joshua would _have_ to at least hear it, and it would probably be best if that happened before their case went to trial—a thought that brought Date nothing but fear, not so much because of his brother but because—somehow—he knew that their day in court would not go well for them. If the Russo Family had the police—could keep Cody in jail and send _assassins_ after Date and his brother—then they probably could pay a judge or two, or rig a jury. Hell, they could probably pay some hospital staff to slip something unpleasant into their IVs, if it came down to it…

But it was the court that frayed Date’s nerves—almost as much as the memories did. It was all-too-easy to imagine Domenico walking free. Luciano Corsica, too, not to mention all of the faceless assholes he’d invited to the party.

There was no point in being defeatist, though, he reminded himself; Date tried not to entertain the darker thoughts that _accompanied_ such cynical pessimism, such as a casual acknowledgment that justice need not _necessarily_ be dispensed in a courtroom, but “justice” is not what Date wanted to bring to those men, anyway. He didn’t think he had it in him to follow through, but there was an uncomfortable, lumpy, violent impulse that had taken up residence somewhere in his chest—one that urged him to find and punish every man that had ever touched Joshua.

But that wasn’t the attitude of a detective. Not a _good_ one, anyway. He just had too much of… _something_ , although he wasn’t sure if it was too much restraint or too much deficit in courage that might stay his hand from stooping to extralegal procedures, even if it _would_ involve less paperwork.

Heh. Extralegal. If something was _extra legal_ , shouldn’t it be _more_ legal? Additionally legal? With extra legality than the normal legal stuff?

Date looked up to the ceiling. Just as he started wondering if he should ask for a reduction of whatever dosages he was getting, he heard a brief conversation at the doorway before a visitor sauntered inside.

Despite himself, Date smiled. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing my bartender so soon—well, half of him, anyway.”

“Because you’ve got one eye? I’m not sure that’s how it works, Date. So: what’s it like seeing out of just one eye? Used to it yet?” asked Gordeau, hefting a little shopping bag and setting it on the table beside the detective’s bed.

“Hm. It’s not that different from seeing with two, honestly. But you ask like you’ve been in the business for a while now, Lars.”

The visitor shrugged, gesturing to the mess of hair that always seemed to cover one eye. It occurred to Date in a kind of momentary state of shock that he had never once seen Gordeau’s left eye. The bartender smoothed his forelock with his hand, but Date still couldn’t catch a look at what lie underneath it. “I keep this one just as a backup,” he declared. “It’s a shame you can’t say the same, anymore. But maybe I’m being insensitive: to make up for it, I brought some sweet stuff along; I know that hospital food is never fun.”

“You end up in a hospital often?” asked Date.

Gordeau shrugged, apparently choosing to keep mum.

“Well—thanks, either way,” said Date with a smile. “Anything new in your neighborhood? Everything’s alright?”

“What? Me?” Gordeau blinked, as though he thought Date were crazy. “Yeah, everything’s fine on my end—but you know I didn’t come here to talk about me, right? It’s probably too much to ask if you’re doing alright, but here’s a better question: _will_ you be alright?”

“Who knows?” Date let out a dry chuckle. “I think it’ll be a rough few months, once we’re out of the hospital. Lots of paperwork, probably. And then we’ll have to deal with the law.” He tried to keep it generic—make it sound like a pain in the neck, not a life-ruining situation in the making.

“Yeah. The papers don’t have much, so I don’t know any of the details, but Jason at least filled me in on the basic gist. Gangsters, right? If that’s the case, it’s good to see you’re still alive at all. What’d you do to make them mad? Talk about the mayor, or something? You’d think with all the bitching I do about her, it would’ve been me in a hospital bed now,” he joked, chuckling.

Gordeau likely had no idea how close to the truth he really was, with a statement like that.

“Sounds like you know the important part,” Date agreed. “If any Russos visit Valhalla, just try to keep can ear out, will you?”

“I mean, I don’t know any Russos by sight, but I’ll try. By the way: I mentioned the news has been pretty much worthless, right? I’ve got a business card for a decent editor at the Gazette, so… I’ll leave that in the bag, too. If the police don’t help, maybe you can get in touch with him.”

“Tell me it’s not Ryder.”

“Oh. It’s Ryder. No good?” he asked, grinning.

Date shook his head, suppressing his laughter. “After everything else, it’s hard to tell. Surprisingly, though, he didn’t seem to believe that Cody should be in jail, either, so he might actually like this story. Hey—you ever served Cody? He ever come to Valhalla?”

“I don’t remember—but I think I _would_ if he _had_. Why?”

He shook his head again. “No reason; just curious.”

“Gotcha. Well… I know I haven’t been here long, but I should probably take off. Glad to see you’re alive, Date. I know it’s rough, but don’t forget you’ve got people on your side, alright?”

“How could I? I’ve got a hero outside my door half the day… and a fifteen-year-old the other half. More allies than I could ever ask for, honestly.” A joke, but it went without saying that they appreciated Tim’s help as much as Jason’s, even if it was easier to have greater confidence in Jason’s ability to keep people safe.

Once they had said their farewells, Date—partly to sate his curiosity, and partly to see if Gordeau had sneaked him anything scandalous—reached for the bag he’d left behind, digging past a few different pink pastry boxes to see if there was anything interesting.

Unfortunately, the most scandalous thing in the bag was the business card of one Jack Ryder. He frowned at it for a moment, wondering if this might be the best direction to go, depending on how badly his and Joshua’s case fell through. The media didn’t always bring justice, after all. At best, it might inform people—but only the ones who really cared. But if Date’s department ended up proving clever enough to hide nearly all of the evidence and testimony that he and the Batfamily provided… well, if Ryder was good for one thing, making a bit of a stink was _it_.

And Date knew he was immature and vengeful enough to facilitate that stink, if he had to.


End file.
